Royally Pregnant (Crown & Glory Book 9)
Page 13
She just needed a minute alone. A few moments to gather herself together before she left.
Numbly, she walked around the room, ran her fingers over a pine tabletop, stopped to gaze at a picture of a teenage Dylan with his sister Anastasia on the deck of a sailboat, both of them smiling and happy, their dark hair windblown and tousled. She brushed her fingertips over a leather-bound copy of Hamlet, then Atlas Shrugged. She could smell him here, feel his presence.
She would never forget this place. It had been her sanctuary and her prison at the same time.
If Dylan were not a prince, if he were an ordinary man, she would fight for him. Plead with him to hear her out, make him understand why she’d done what she’d done. Convince him somehow that she loved him.
But he was a prince, a successor to the throne, even though he’d told her that he’d never be king, that his brother Owen would rule Penwyck when King Morgan stepped down.
Emily sighed and slowly shook her head. Prince or king, it didn’t matter. An elementary-school teacher from a tiny town in West County had no place in a palace. One day Dylan would marry a woman of title or royalty. They’d have children who would be princes and princesses. He would go on with his life. He would forget her.
She drew in a slow breath, smiled in spite of the tears burning her eyes. But she would never forget him.
Once again, she pressed a hand to her stomach.
Ever.
Twelve
“It’s just a scratch, for God’s sake. Will everyone stop hovering?”
Dylan lay in the infirmary bed, more than annoyed that almost his entire family, not to mention two nurses, had crowded into the room. If someone asked if they could fluff his pillow or bring him anything one more time, he was going to throw the whole lot of them out. Except for his mother and father. Not even he could throw King Morgan and Queen Marissa out of the room.
“He’s been cranky since he was admitted yesterday,” Anastasia whispered to Megan and Meredith.
“He’s been cranky most of his life,” Megan quipped back, but there was tenderness in her eyes, not malice.
“I heard that,” Dylan snapped. “And I am not cranky, dammit.”
“Of course you’re not, dear.” Marissa patted her son’s hand. “Maybe some pain medication would calm you down.”
“I don’t need any pain medication,” he lied. His arm hurt like a son of a bitch. “And I don’t need to be calmed down, either. What I need is to get out of here.”
King Morgan harrumphed from a chair beside the bed. “You’ve only been here twenty-four hours, son. Try five months in the hospital, then you’ve a right to complain.”
“I…am…not…complaining,” he said through clenched teeth. “I’ve been examined and treated. There’s no reason for me to be here any longer.”
Marissa smoothed the crisp white sheets over the edge of the bed. “You have fifteen stitches and you lost a lot of blood, Dylan. Doctor Waltham wants to keep an eye on you for at least another day or two. If I have to, I’ll post guards outside your door.”
Dylan bit back the earthy swear word threatening to erupt, a word he never used in front of his mother. He recognized the tone in her voice, knew she wasn’t bluffing. Until the doctor released him, Dylan knew he was a prisoner here.
Dammit.
It more than pricked his pride that he’d gotten himself shot and had passed out for a few minutes, but in light of the overall success of the mission, Dylan knew he had nothing to complain about. The Black Knights had all been rounded up and captured, and his uncle had been arrested. There’d been four fatalities, all of them Broderick’s men, and only five casualties, including himself. Olivia Bridgewater had been escorted home safe and sound.
And Emily…
He knew that she had left the cottage, that per his orders, she’d been flown back to Marjoco and reunited with her grandmother. He told himself that he was glad she was gone. He could forget about her now, get on with his life. There was much to do to restore order in the palace. He had no time to think about a beautiful, dark-haired enchantress.
He hadn’t mentioned Emily once since he’d returned, but he knew his mother and sisters had already guessed he wasn’t as indifferent to the woman as he’d pretended to be. The last thing he wanted to do was discuss his feelings for Emily with his family.
Especially when he didn’t know what those feelings were himself.
She hadn’t asked to see him before she’d left. He told himself that he was glad, that he would have refused if she had asked to meet with him. Now that the Black Knights were apprehended and her grandmother was safe, what else was there to say between them?
And even as he asked himself that question, he knew the answer: Everything.
He scowled at the IV of antibiotics attached to his arm, cursed his imprisonment in this damn hospital room.
Neither he or Emily had been completely truthful to each other, he realized. Neither one of them had been truly honest.
Perhaps it was time they were.
As if there weren’t enough people in his room, the door opened and Owen came in. His wife, Jordan, and their four-year-old daughter, Whitney, followed, as did a white-gloved server carrying a silver tray loaded with filled champagne glasses.
Champagne? Dylan narrowed a gaze at his brother. Owen only grinned like that when he was up to something. Dylan glanced at his mother and father. They were grinning, as well.
King Morgan nodded at the server, who bowed and backed out of the room. Both nurses left as well.
What the hell was going on? Dylan wondered. He watched everyone in the room take a glass of champagne and raise it toward him. Something was definitely up.
Something big.
Clearly, he was about to find out.
Emily sat on the small sofa in her living room and stared at the suitcases she’d packed the night before. There were six in all, three for herself, three for her grandmother. Everything they’d need to live in the States for the next few months. Olivia had a cousin there, Veronica, whom she hadn’t seen in twenty years. The woman owned a farm in Connecticut, and had been widowed for two years. When Emily had called Veronica and asked if she and Olivia could come for a visit, the woman had been thrilled and insisted they not only come, but that they stay as long as they wanted.
It had been a busy week getting passports, subletting their house and convincing Alba Huntley, the headmistress at Clarton Elementary, to agree to the ten-month leave of absence Emily had requested. But everything was ready now, everything in place.
She was ready, she told herself firmly. She had to be.
What choice did she have?
Emily rose and walked to the sliding glass door overlooking her postage-stamp-sized garden. A gray mist moistened the bricks of her tiny patio where empty clay pots waited to be planted with spring annuals and a two-foot plaster gnome with green pants, a blue shirt and a red pointed hat waved one hand in welcome. Daffodils and paper whites would push through the cold ground in another few months, Emily knew. She’d miss the riot of color from the tulips and larkspur, the sweet scent of roses and alyssum.
She’d miss so many other things. Her children at school, sharing tea with her neighbor across the street, the excitement of back-to-school night, holiday parties in the teachers’ lounge.
Dylan.
She’d miss him most of all. For the past week, since she’d come home, she’d thought about him constantly. The nights had been the hardest, when the house was quiet and she lay in her bed, unable to sleep. How could she not remember the thrill of his hand on her skin, the press of his lips against hers? How could she not remember how perfectly their bodies had fit when they’d made love?
She’d never know that kind of love again, she was certain. After Dylan, how could she?
Turning from the patio door, she stared at the one-way plane tickets sitting on the table beside her phone. Their flight left in three hours. An emptiness consumed her, chilled her to the bone.
Emily glanced at the wood-framed clock on the mantle over her brick fireplace. The taxi would be here soon. She really should gather sweaters and coats, turn off the furnace and walk through the house one more time to make sure she hadn’t forgotten anything.
With a sigh, she picked up the tickets, glanced at the itinerary once more. The paper seemed to burn her fingers; heat radiated up her arm.
Dear God. The numbers and words on the paper blurred.
She looked up, eyes wide as she scanned the living room. Her pulse kicked, then quickened. And in that one moment, that split second of time, she knew.
She couldn’t leave. No matter how much she wanted to run away, she couldn’t. No place would be far enough.
And it would be wrong. Very wrong, for her to leave now.
Afraid that she might change her mind, Emily set her grandmother’s ticket back on the table. Her hands shook as she firmly grasped her own ticket and ripped it in thirds, then walked to the fireplace and threw it inside. She stared at the shredded paper, felt the knots in her stomach slowly unwind and the weight in her chest lighten.
Almost giddy, she pressed a trembling hand to her lips. She had to tell her grandmother that she would be visiting Veronica by herself, that she could come back here, to West County, whenever she was ready.
Emily jumped at the sound of a solid knock on the front door. The taxi. She would ride to the airport with her grandmother and make sure she got on her plane all right, then she would return home and do what she knew she needed to do.
One way or another, whether he wanted it or not, she would see Dylan.
Whatever happened, so be it. But there would be no more lies.
The doorbell rang now, followed by another knock, louder this time. She hurried across the room, her mind racing with what lay ahead of her, a mix of fear and excitement. She opened the door.
And froze.
Dylan.
She stopped breathing, was certain her heart had stopped, as well. He wore a long black overcoat over black trousers and a blue, long-sleeved shirt that darkened his already deep-blue eyes. Those eyes stared at her now, pinned her to the spot. She simply stared back, too stunned to move.
Had she willed him to appear simply by thinking that she would see him again? What was the expression, “Be careful what you wish for?” A moment ago, there’d been so many things she’d wanted to say to him. And now that he stood here, her mind went blank.
“May I come in?”
There was no emotion in his voice, no expression on his face.
And still she couldn’t move.
A light mist of rain covered his dark hair. Her fingers itched to brush the dampness away, to touch his face. Her heart started to pound, low and heavy, and she willed herself to breathe.
“Emily.” There was an edge of annoyance in his voice. “I’d like to come inside.”
She blinked, realized that she’d been standing here like a complete idiot. Taking a step back on weak knees, she curtsied. “Of course, Your Royal Highness. Please, come in.”
He strode past her, his shoulders stiff, his stance formal. She turned to shut the door, noticed the four men in suits standing beside a black limousine.
Why had he come to see her so heavily guarded? she wondered.
Why had he come to see her at all?
Her heart slammed against her ribs. Had he come to arrest her? No one had ever specifically told her that she would not be sent to jail, but she’d assumed when they’d released her and sent her home that any charges against her had been dropped.
Trembling, she closed the door, turned to face him, then had to clasp her hands tightly in front of her for fear he would see her shaking.
He glanced at the suitcases, then frowned darkly at her. “Are you going somewhere?”
Not anymore, she wanted to say. But the edge of anger in his voice made her hold back. “Is there any reason that I should not?” she asked carefully.
“You did not answer me.”
“My grandmother has a cousin in Connecticut.” His terse manner confused her. “After everything that’s happened, I thought a visit would be good for her.”
He shook his head. “You cannot leave.”
Dear Lord. So he was here to arrest her. She fought back the cold panic inching up her spine. “I—I’ve told you everything I know, Dylan.” She cast her eyes downward. “Your Royal Highness.”
“Have you?” He took a step toward her. “Before you run away, is there not still something that you should tell me?”
“The Black Knights have—”
“Dammit, this has nothing to do with the Black Knights. They no longer exist. This is about you,” he said evenly. “And me.”
Her gaze shot upward. Did he know? No, she thought, her mind racing. He couldn’t possibly.
“Ah, so there is something.” His voice softened, and he moved closer still. “I can see it in your eyes. I’ll have nothing less than the truth now, Emily. You owe me that much.”
She did. She owed him the truth, and so much more.
“Yes,” she whispered. “I do.”
“Tell me.” He reached out, took her chin in his hand. “Tell me your feelings for me. Your true feelings.”
Her feelings for him? That’s what he wanted to know? Why he’d come here?
Hope fluttered in the pit of her stomach, but she refused to give in to it yet, refused to let herself believe that he’d come here because he cared about her.
“I—I thought you came here to arrest me.”
“Arrest you?” He furrowed his brow. “I suppose I could. If it means keeping you here.”
She swallowed hard, terrified that she might be misunderstanding what he was saying to her. “Does it matter to you, Dylan?” she asked softly. “If I stay or go?”
“It matters.” He brushed his thumb across her cheek. “It matters a great deal.”
“I was going to leave,” she said quietly. His thumb stilled on her cheek; his eyes narrowed. “But I tore up my ticket and threw it in the fireplace.”
He glanced over his shoulder, saw that she’d told him the truth. The stiffness in his shoulders eased as he turned back to her. “Why?”
She leaned into him, kept her gaze level with his. “Because I love you.”
She’d said those words to him before, the last time they’d made love. But she knew he hadn’t believed her. She prayed he’d believe her now.
“Dylan,” she hurried on when he said nothing. “I understand there’s no place in your life for me, but if you—”
He dragged her against him, caught her mouth to his. Startled, it took her a moment to respond, then her arms were around his neck, kissing him back.
“You love me,” he whispered against her lips.
“I love you.” She drew back, watched a slow smile spread over his face. Drawing in a deep breath, she stepped away, needed to put a little space between them before she told him everything. “And there’s something else I—”
“Emily, have you seen my blue bonnet? I was certain I left it on my bed, but it’s not there. Oh!”
Olivia stopped at the sight of the man standing in the middle of the living room with her granddaughter, then beamed. “Why, what a pleasant surprise! How delightful to see you again, young man. Emily, dear, you never told me that you knew—” Olivia hesitated, then frowned. “Heavens, I don’t know your name, sir. How terribly ungrateful of me.”
Flustered, Emily glanced from her grandmother to Dylan, then back to her grandmother. “You know each other?”
“Well, of course we do,” Olivia said brightly. “I told you all about him, dear. This is the man who saved my life.�
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“Saved…your…life?” Emily’s voice was barely a whisper. Wide-eyed, she stared at Dylan. “You were the soldier who saved my grandmother’s life?”
“Took a bullet for me, he did,” Olivia said solemnly, then marched up to Dylan. “Lean down here, young man, so I can thank you properly. I never did get a chance in all the commotion that night.”
“It was an honor, Mrs. Bridgewater.” But Dylan did as he was told and Olivia kissed him on the cheek.
Emily looked at Dylan, felt the blood drain from her face. She reached out to him, then quickly drew back, afraid she might hurt him. “You…took a bullet? Oh my God, Dylan. I didn’t know.”
A wave of nausea rose in her stomach. Her knees turned to water, and she might have gone down if Dylan hadn’t scooped her up in his arms.
“Emily! You poor child. Are you sick again?” Distressed, Olivia clasped a hand to her throat. “I’ll run and get a cold washcloth.”
Dylan watched Olivia hurry out of the room, then looked at Emily. Her face was pale as a sheet, her eyes wide with distress.
“You were shot,” she murmured. “You could have died.”
“I’m fine, Emily,” he assured her. “It was barely a scratch. What did your grandmother mean when she asked if you were sick again? Have you been ill?”
“Dylan, please.” She closed her eyes. “Please put me down.”
“Not until you answer me. What’s wrong with you?”
“There’s nothing wrong with me,” she whispered. “Except…”
“Except what?” he asked impatiently.
Her eyes opened slowly and met his. “I…I’m pregnant.”
“Pregnant?” he repeated hoarsely. “As in baby?”
“I don’t believe there’s any other kind. Please, put me down now.”
In a daze, Dylan carried Emily to the couch and gently laid her on the cushions. He stared at her, still struggling to find his breath. He could feel his pulse thrumming in his temple, could hear the pounding in his ears.
A baby.
His baby.
A muscle jumped in his jaw. Slowly, carefully, he drew air into his lungs. “You were going to keep this from me?”